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by victortrevortea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Romance, old friends/boyfriends, short reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2279958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victortrevortea/pseuds/victortrevortea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After eight years since they went their separate ways in their lives, a letter arrives for Sherlock from Victor Trevor, asking the sleuth to pay him a one last visit at his old villa in Norfolk, before he moves away forever to India.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time in ages that I'm writing stories, so have this short fic of Sherlock and Victor's short reunion. xx

_**One** _

 Sherlock’s searching gaze followed the lines as he went through them again, and again. Although, his expression remained unchanged every single time.  Once he made sure that he had studied every curve of each letter, and observed the paper from every possible angle, he lifted his gaze from it, his blue eyes glinting in the sun that was peeking from between the clouds, when he raised them to the gray sky of London.

 The letter had come from Norfolk, the handwriting as rich as the paper. There was a smell of polished oak wood and oil trapped in the texture. If Sherlock closed his eyes and focused well enough, he could smell the faint odor of garden roses.

 “What is _that_ about?” John’s voice broke his peace. His tired eyes were studying the detective carefully, the morning newspaper hanging from between his fingers. He tried his best not to sound curious. He was used to not getting an answer, but he still tried.

 Sherlock took in a deep breath, but no exhale could be heard from him. He would do this sometimes, when he felt he was taking too much oxygen in his lungs and it was quickening his thought process. _Mind labor,_ he liked to call it. He would keep the carbon dioxide trapped inside for a little longer, allowing the poison to slow down his racing heart, and therefore, his mind. Sometimes he preferred to take his time while thinking. He _needed_ to take his time to decide.

He emptied his lungs with a loud puff. “I’m going to Norfolk.”

_**Two** _

 The lands had barely changed from what he remembered. The roads were wide and green and welcoming, and from a higher ground Sherlock could see the familiar lake, with English oaks standing tall around it. It was a two hours drive from London to Norfolk, so he had rented a car. The nature before him was so captivating, that he hadn't realized when he reached his destination.

 The small village was exactly the same as well, with the same old houses. It was a rather nostalgic moment for Sherlock when he drove up that familiar hill, and the old villa appeared before his eyes, as if it was slowly rising from the mouth of the green, smooth hill.

 His heart thumped in his chest when he came to a halt before the familiar iron gate, and finally after he parked the car, the ornate doors of the villa. He decided that it was more from being overwhelmed by the memories he had from here -- rather than excitement.

But Sherlock Holmes didn't get overwhelmed.

 The doors were opened on their heels and Sherlock had to blink when sun rays fell on those familiar golden curls. He had to blink once again at the blinding smile adorning that familiar face. Sherlock held out his hand, “Victor.” However, his hand was never shaken, as he was pulled into a warm embrace instead. “Sherlock! You made it!” Sherlock's face scrunched up in his discomfort. Victor was still as friendly and cheerful as he remembered -- _annoyingly_ so. “Of course I did. You practically begged me in your letter to come here.” And Sherlock was still as comfortable around Victor as he remembered; even though this was the first time after eight years that they were seeing each other -- How annoying. Why could he never be cold and formal around the man? Two seconds and they were already acting like best friends.

Victor’s smile didn’t falter for a single moment. It almost never did -- Almost. “Come on in! I’m preparing something for dinner.” Sherlock frowned, “Don’t you have servants to do that?”

“No, I sent them all away less than a week ago.”

“Oh.”

“It was a nightmare. Gunther was crying when he left.”

“ _Oh_.”

“But what else could I do? They knew they couldn't stay and work for the next owner. My father was their family.”

 Sherlock came to a halt in the dining hall, his gaze running up to the ceiling where hung a giant chandelier.  _Now_ he was starting to feel overwhelmed. Why hadn't anything changed in this place? Why did everything _have_ to be the same? “Are you really going to sell this place?” Victor shrugged. “I have to. I’m moving to India, and I’m never coming back here, so why keep it?”

“Fair point.” Sherlock’s mind didn’t agree with his words.

 “Are you coming?” Victor’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Hm? Oh, of course.” They left the dining hall, and entered a hallway that reached the kitchen. Sherlock caught the pleasant smell of garlic and cheese before they reached it. “ _Italian_. Of course you would.”

“It’s easier!” Victor excused himself from further questions with that reply.

 They sat down at the table, and had their dinner in peace and quiet. Neither made mention of Victor blowing on a spoonful of hot pasta sauce before holding it out for Sherlock to taste, or of Sherlock throwing parmesan at the blond when he felt a little playful earlier in the kitchen. After they finished their meal, Victor, as always, was the first one to break the silence.

“So, tell me about your career! I guess it’s booming, considering the stuff they write about you in the papers.”

Sherlock shrugged, still playing with the cold sauce left in his plate. “It’s fine, I suppose. Not as exciting as it used to be.” A dramatic sigh left his lips, “Criminals of London have lost the old creativity they used to show in their crimes.”

 Victor rolled his eyes at that, but his smile remained. “Well then, good news for the civilians of London, I suppose.”

“Bad news for my brain work.”

“That’s looking at the empty half of the glass.”

 Sherlock pointed his fork at the man sitting before him accusingly, “ _You_ would say something like that, wouldn't you?” Victor’s smile turned into a grin. “I’m optimistic.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but gave up eventually. A faint smile could be seen at the corner of his lips when he dropped his fork back onto his plate.

_**Three** _

  “When are you leaving?” Sherlock asked as he locked his arm with Victor’s. They had taken the smooth, white country road to the lake -- just like they used to. Victor always insisted that this was the easiest way, when in fact it was the _longest_ way. They both knew this, but neither ever mentioned it, as they both enjoyed long, quiet walks; especially when they were in each other’s company.

 “When I find a buyer for the house.” Victor lifted his elegant hand to run it over his untamable curls, which had become even more unruly by the cool summer wind dancing playfully between them, “A _worthy_ buyer.” He corrected himself. Sherlock raised a mocking brow at that, “You speak as if you’re planning to pass on the throne.” Victor’s expression remained serious, “Actually, it’s not much different from that to me.” He made a gesture with his free hand towards the lands they were walking upon. “This is my father’s birthplace, and mine. It’s where I was born and raised -- where I lived my entire life. I can’t just give it to the next person that demands it. It can’t be just anyone. It has to be someone I know; Someone I trust.” Sherlock looked up at the blond for a moment, before nodding in understanding. Victor remained silent after that, until they climbed into a boat and he began paddling to the center of the lake.

 After they had their turkey sandwiches for lunch, they began a long afternoon of fishing. Sherlock was good at many things, but fishing was not one of them. Victor on the other hand had already caught four by the time Sherlock finally announced that something was pulling on his rope. What happened next was Victor forcing himself to stop giggling as he set free the tiny fish Sherlock had managed to catch, while trying to avoid Sherlock’s angry glares. Despite the fact that Sherlock was still pouting when they returned to the land, he held onto Victor’s hand as they walked back to the villa.

* * *

 

 “Do you still write?” Sherlock suddenly asked after dinner. Victor looked up from his book, the steam rising from his cup of tea making his face disappear behind a veil of gray. “Poetry? No, I gave that up a long time ago.” Sherlock frowned, “Why? You were quite good at it.” Victor laughed in disbelief, “You used to tell me I stink.” Sherlock shrugged, a crooked smirk lifting the corners of his lips. “I meant the love poems. They were _soppy_.”

“ _All_ of them were love poems.”

Sherlock threw his head back in exasperation, “I liked some of them.”  Victor lit up at that, “You did?”

“Of course. What are you reading now?” Victor held up the cover of the book for Sherlock to see: _Shakespeare’s sonnets_. “Ah.” In fact, Sherlock didn’t need Victor to tell him at all. Sherlock could recognize that worn out book from a mile away. It contained the poems Victor used to read to him a long time ago when they were lying in bed, their bare limbs entangled in one another's. Sherlock’s eyes softened at the old memories that book had brought back to him. “Read one for me.” He demanded, looking up at Victor from underneath his long lashes. Victor stared at him for a few brief seconds, as if he was trying to decide whether he’d heard Sherlock correctly. He nodded eventually, going back to his book to choose a poem.  He didn’t have to look for the one he wanted. He had read this book nearly twenty times; He knew every single page like his name. He lifted his gaze for a second, enough for it to entangle with Sherlock’s before it went back to the page he’d opened. He cleared his throat before he began reading the sonnet in his hopeless-romantic voice; the one which he believed suited each one of Shakespeare’s love poems:

_Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;_

_What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?_

_No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call;_

_All mine was thine before thou hadst this more._

_Then if for my love thou my love receivest,_

_I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;_

_But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest_

_By wilful taste of what thyself refusest._

_I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,_

_Although thou steal thee all my poverty;_

_And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief_

_To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury._

_Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows;_

_Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes._

 Sherlock’s eyes held an alien expression in them as he listened to the blond. When Victor lifted his head once again to look at him, he couldn't guess what was going through his head, and worried his lower lip. Perhaps he had overstepped his boundaries. With Sherlock, he could never know.

“Take me to your bed.”

* * *

 

It had been years since Victor’s fingers had touched his skin; decades, _ages_.

He felt as if he was going to burn under his touch, turned into ashes. And he could only whimper in anticipation.

“ _Oh, Sherlock_.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and gave in to the sensation.

“ _Oh God, **Sherlock**_.”

Victor’s lips and hands were everywhere. And it felt _amazing_.

It felt right.

“ _I love you_.”

He had never felt more like he belonged somewhere, and this was where he belonged. Here, in Victor’s arms, trapped in his warmth, his scent.

“ _I never stopped loving you._ ”

He opened his lips to let out a soft sigh. It sounded content.

“I know.”

_**Four** _

 John was relieved when Sherlock finally returned to 221B. In fact, he was more than relieved. The man had been gone for a _month_. When John asked him what the hell he’d been doing in bloody Norfolk all this time, he said that he was on his sex holiday, and of course, left John with wide eyes and his mouth falling agape.

 John continued eyeing the detective suspiciously all day. The sleuth looked peculiarly cheerful that day. It pissed him off when Sherlock knew he had a lot to explain, but he wouldn't explain anything -- Anything at all.

 Later that evening, they were both sitting in silence; Sherlock watching crap telly, and John updating his blog. Sherlock had his palms placed around his late night cup of tea, and he seemed to have completely focused on the program he was watching. Then he suddenly mumbled something.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said you should take a few weeks off your job sometime.”

John turned his head to look at the detective expectantly, but when he didn't continue, he knew he had to ask himself. “Why?”

“So that we can go to Norfolk. You know, for a vacation.”

“… _Why?_ ”

“Because I bought a villa there.”

 


End file.
